A Virtual Surfeit of Ineptitude

I’ve made a New Year’s Resolution! I’ve not had one in years. Not only due to the fact that I am, after all, the very soul of perfection, but because it always seemed a relatively xtian, specifically Catholic thing to do. I mean, who else tallies up their innumerable faults on a schedule, promises to do better, then goes on about their wrong-headed business as if nothing at all happened?

But I digress. Wait, no I don’t-that’s rather the point.

I’ve let too many mildly irritating things mar my otherwise fun-loving interweb personality. This is annoying on a myriad of levels, not the least of which is the fact that I don’t even like reading this blog anymore. Therefore, I can hardly expect anyone else to, no?

I think it is safe to say that I have “anger issues”, particularly as related to certain unnamed, backward-thinking, superstitious religi-ah-organizations and their desire to force their absurd, childish dogma upon…well, everyone else. I suppose you could blame it on my childhood; after all, some would argue that it is somehow wrong to wean an infant on straight whiskey rather than, say, dairy milk. I’ll have none of that thinking myself! Life is not the Oprah show. I did not get to be the cussed bastard that I am because mommy didn’t hug me enough. The gods know had she remained as desperately cloying as she was during my toddler years, I’d have broken her other arm, as well.

Where was I? Oh, the resolution thing. Yes, well, henceforth, I declare that I shall make every endeavor to make these postings more “fun”. I looked the word up in the dictionary and everything. Though I’m not entirely sure I understand the concept, I nevertheless embrace it with all the tenacity exhibited by a middle-aged, undersexed Pentecostal hag tossing herself to the dirt floor of one of their worship-hovels, quivering and shrieking “in tongues”.

Oopsy, there I go again. Well, there is a learning curve to these things, you know.

It reminds me of the story of Wilhemina Hawkins. Have I ever mentioned her? Allow me to set the stage: It was the Age of Syphilis and Typhoid. Queen Victoria ruled over a vast empire of virginal, god-fearing white people with mouths full of horrific, rotting teeth. No one had ever actually seen a real, live Canadian in its natural habitat. Mary Poppins roamed the skies like a great, black bird of prey, her frightful retinue of umbrella and carpetbag clutched in her bloodless talons, striking fear into the hearts of repressed, passive English children across The Empire. The French had not yet learned the hygienic benefits of bathing on a regular basis.

Oh, wait, now I am confusing you. The French still haven’t learned that.

Anyway, Wilhemina Hawkins was, in fact, the fairest girl in all the Sudan (although it should be kept in mind that people were uglier back then), where she lived with her uncle, a decorated hero of Her Majesty’s Navy. Yet despite Wilhemina’s beauty and grace, she was not much sought after as A Bride, for her education had been entirely Too Liberal, and her natural intellect too keen. It was the widely held view in English Society that such things were unbecoming in any woman, and entirely wrong for a Real Lady.

Yet Wilhemina did not mind, for she had little interest in becoming A Wife, a profession upon which she looked without great charity, if not outright scorn. Still, she felt that there were certain admirable qualities to being A Lady, not the least of which was that A (Married) Lady should never be known as A Spinster, that most dreadful state of femininity.

Arguably, A Whore might have been worse, but it was Wilhemina’s view that whores, at least, had some worldly experience, where spinsters had only musty black frocks and inconsequential pensions. She recognized this pattern of thought to be one of her many failings as Real Lady.

Thus it was that she resigned herself to Marriage, primarily with a view toward getting the matter done with and disposed of whilst she was still young enough to investigate other options. The only real difficulty proved to be in securing a Suitable Husband.

Though publicly modest, Wilhemina was not so oblivious to her own charms that she had any doubt in her ability to win virtually any man’s heart. The need to find one either willing to let her go her own way or able to be bullied into the same, however, was her primary goal.

Then as now, Proper Englishman seemed to run in only two categories: Soft and guileless, given to following the dictates of Society at large, with no tangible evidence of any real will whatsoever; Or blustery and commanding, with little to no common sense to curb their vanity. (Unlike the present, English Gentleman were not given to publicly displaying their addiction to various controlled substances and their preference for buggering one another, absent the presence of a young, preferably Latin boy to “top” them. Not that they did not do or enjoy all of those things, mind, they just didn’t tell the world.) In any event, it was clear to Wilhemina that neither sort would suit her singular purpose. She therefore took it as Divine Providence when she met an American Archeologist named Samuel Valentine, who was handsome, strong, intelligent, and (like most Americans) entirely too keen on himself to pay much attention to anyone else or their affairs, up to and including a marriage partner. Employing her charms to their utmost degree, aided in no small part by large quantities of Absinthe and ‘headache powder’, Wilhemina managed to gain Samuel’s attention only briefly, but given his American Character, it was enough to secure a marriage vow.

And that, my friends, is how Stella got her groove back.

Oh, no, wait…well, I’m sure there was some point to all that. Think on it, will you? I know I certainly will.